


"For Thine is the Kingdom"

by Val Mora (valmora)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Coming of Age, Great Northern War, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religion, Thirty Years' War, Wars of Religion, challenge:Nordic5_xmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-01
Updated: 2009-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-28 00:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sweden grows up into an Empire during the Thirty Years’ War.  The religious aspect of the war becomes a problem.  So does Finland sleeping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"For Thine is the Kingdom"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meomnimi](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=meomnimi).



> Originally posted [here](http://nordic5-xmas.livejournal.com/2457.html).
> 
> The title is from the Lord's Prayer; the cut text (on the original post) is from Mark 10:9.
> 
> Beta by kainoliero (LJ).

Finland rises to stand in his stirrups, looking over the field, and Sweden watches him. He tries not to follow the hard lines of Finland's body under his battle uniform. Finland is strong, now, with their unition, and his loyalty and vitality and kindness make Sweden glad that they are together in peace and in war. He holds his reins tighter and looks behind himself to be certain that nothing has gone amiss with the companies behind them.

Today they are to battle the Holy Roman Empire. They will send their men to fight other men; there will be death and blood, in God’s name and His justice. Let the Nation who is in the right win.

Let the Nation who is least sullied win, Sweden thinks. He has accepted French coin to bring his and Finland’s men this far, and France follows the Pope in Rome.

Finland’s reins clink as he moves and Sweden turns to look at him.

“Will we attack first?” Finland asks.

Sweden nods. Finland rides with him to war.

 

 

 

They win that battle because the Holy Roman Empire is tired and weak with hunger. Men die. Territory is gained, loot is taken, the camp whores profit by men driven to lust in their victory and pain.

Sweden goes to his tent and wonders if tomorrow he will wake with new-formed spots on his face, like he did this morning. He supposes he will become an adult when this is over; he has been of a height with most men for a few years now, and he is still growing. Already he has begun to grow hair under his arms and – elsewhere.

He sleeps beside Finland, as they have done since they left Denmark’s house. Finland is warm and smells of juniper, horseflesh, blood. Sweden marvels at their shared heat, then rises to dress to survey the troops. When he is clad he wakes Finland and leaves the tent to wash his face while Finland dresses.

 

 

 

He is watching the horses feed and thinking that he is hungry when he overhears a conversation between two foot-soldiers.

Much of it is simple: complaining about the heat of the day, the cold of the night, the lice, the food, the lay of the land. The officers.

“’n th’ boy commanders,” one of them says, “Th’tall one’s lookin’ t’have th’ other’s arse.”

Sweden clenches his fists in his own coat. He is old enough, and clever enough, to understand; he stood at his mother’s side as she raided the south, and saw that sometimes a man would, when there were too few girls or his spirit was twisted, claim boys instead. Sweden has seen this, and he thinks properly that it is filthy, the sin of Sodom, and he is not – he does not – he is not _broken_.

That night, he sleeps in the warmth of his and Finland’s shared bed, comforted by the soft sniffle of Finland breathing in his sleep.

He wakes with aching heat between his legs, his breath desperate, and Finland pressed so close and tight to him that even through their clothes, were he to be awake, he would feel Sweden’s –

Sweden jerks away from him and dresses with his back turned. He runs to the church that stands on the border of where they have set up camp and kneels in front of the wooden crucified Christ, praying for his rebellious flesh to settle and weeping from shame.

 

 

 

That night he strips off the dirtiest of his clothes with his back turned to Finland – but he has been doing that for years, now. Ever since he realized that he was to become a man and that Finland was not, or at least not yet.

But Finland is ready for bed sooner than Sweden – maybe because Sweden is slow, thinking of his body’s reaction, dreading what may come.

When Sweden crawls into the bed, Finland shifts closer in innocent comfort, but Sweden holds out a hand to keep some space between them.

“’t’d be too warm,” he says. “Summer’s coming.” Not that it is not still cold; in the mornings he can see his own breath cloud in the air.

“Oh,” Finland says, and casts his eyes to the closed throat of Sweden’s clothing. Sweden holds back the soft shiver that wants to run through him and ruin his lie. Finland would ignore him and sleep pressed close to him again, then wake with Sweden’s - Sweden’s _prick_ digging into him as a banner of sin. No. There is no – he can imagine Finland’s disgust, his pride, the jut of his chin and the spark of his eyes while renouncing their friendship and their shared nation.

Sweden curls around the hollow pit of his belly and spends the hours until he falls asleep praying that God will see fit to give them victory and see fit as well to return his innocence.

 

 

 

They win. He takes land that was once his cousin’s and decides that if he is to be sick then he will at least make the semblance of wholeness, and holds his silence. He has long called Finland his wife, not in jest; they keep house together, do they not? Yet now, knowing of his own sin, saying the word pains him. _Wife_. As though he does not know that Finland is a man, or as though he desires Finland to lie with him anyway.

That, he wants as much as he fears. His body is pulled but his mind does not bend except in sleep, where he dreams of the far north and the smoke of burn-clearing, and the damp heat of the sauna thick in his lungs.

It has become an ugly joke, the Devil mocking him by finding the desire that lay within him and bringing it forward, and so he ceases to say the word.

 

 

 

Soon they make war again. All their neighbors at once, impossible and terrible, and they are defeated. Sweden kneels curled over Finland’s bruised body, left behind lying to the side of a road as Russia pulled out of his lands, and thinks of Russia’s soldiers occupying, defiling, Finland’s villages and fields, and he is shamed and desperate.

“I,” Sweden says, and his knees are cold in the mud. Penance is worthless. He remembers the slow wicked spread of the Ottoman Empire’s smile and how he said to Sweden, one night while they drank together, _So that’s the kind of beloved you keep that far north._ Sweden choked. The Ottoman Empire laughed, leaned closer on his couch. _Like the sword of empire, or the Greeks. A beloved can turn your liver to snow or he can bring you strong to war._

_That’s not – we are not – my love is pure,_ Sweden said, but his conscience burned at the lie.

The Ottoman Empire laughed again and drank smoke from his pipe. _So you don’t keep him as a catamite. But not because you don’t want him lying naked under you with his legs open._

Sweden, heart and belly twisted with desire at the image, snarled, _France was right; you’re filthy,_ and left.

But now he is cold, his trousers covered in dirt and old blood, and his ribs ache. He has lost and he worries what Finland will think of him this first meeting since Sweden fled south in exile.

He digs his fingers tighter into the layers of Finland’s clothing, pulling Finland into his lap, leaning down until he can smell the dirt and sweat in the cloth of Finland’s jacket.

“’s true,” he says, “’s true. I need your strength. I need you.” He rises to his feet, but the motion jars Finland awake.

“Sweden?” Finland says, opening his eyes and looking up.

“Yes.”

“If you let Russia have me again,” Finland says, and doesn’t finish the threat.

“No,” Sweden says. He understands. He –

“Could you let me down?” Finland asks. “I can walk.”

So Sweden bends to his knees and lets Finland’s muddy boots fall to the ground. They walk together the rest of the way, supporting each other. One country, two Nations, both of them broken by war.

 

 

 

When they have returned home again they bathe and put on fresh clothes before sitting together in front of a fire. Finland’s heat against his side is welcome, but leaves him feeling uneven. As though –

Finland touches the corner of Sweden’s jaw and says, “I missed you while you were gone.”

“’n I you.”

“I…” Something passes across Finland’s face, a strange lost expression, before his hand falls to his lap and he leans close again, his head coming to rest against Sweden’s shoulder. “I’m glad to be back.”

Sweden falls asleep like that.

 

 

 

He wakes when Finland starts humming like he used to when they were still children during the Crusades. Sweden can’t stop the thrill of fear that sparks in his chest. He knows better than to believe that Finland would work with the Devil, but he’s still terrified of it, how it sounds, untamable.

“Wish y’wouldn’t do that,” he says when Finland stops, and Finland twitches in surprise against his shoulder.

“...It’s not Devil-worship,” he says finally. “I was trying to sing my brother, but I couldn’t remember.”

“Still.” Sweden lets his arm slide up around Finland’s shoulders; it rests there for a moment before Finland leans away and stands, stretching and yawning.

“I’m going to bed,” Finland says. “You coming?”

Sweden imagines what it would be like to have Finland above him, spread over his hips, their hands together as they strove –

“Not yet,” he says, and turns back to the fire, hoping that Finland will not see his blush, that his too-responsive body will turn quiet.

 

 

 

The next morning Finland skis the miles to their neighbor’s house, returns smiling and warm and cheerful, and collapses sweaty on the bed; Sweden tries not to think of the power of Finland’s thighs, the muscles that flex under his skin. He watches Finland out of the corner of his eyes anyway as Finland undresses slowly to change into warmer clothes.

Yet he finds himself angered, desperate, as Finland’s undershirt slips away from his skin and onto the floor, baring his chest. Finland doesn’t turn away to cover his nakedness the way they were accustomed to doing before – he doesn’t even look away from Sweden while he reaches for the ties at his waist. As though he has full intention to put on display all the view Sweden has spent the last hundred years wishing he did not want to see.

“Stop,” Sweden says, once the ties are undone and Finland is still watching him, the cloth edging over his hips.

Finland does, but even though his hands aren’t moving his breeches sink tantalizing-low. “Stop what?”

For a moment Sweden thinks he should hold his tongue, keep silence and turn away. But then he sees the quicksilver glint in Finland’s eyes, the honey-secret edge of his smile, and he knows that the temptation is Finland’s as well, not only his own mind making suggestions in its sin –

“You’re not a whore,” he says. “Y’shouldn’t show off your body ‘s though y’were.”

Finland doesn’t turn away. “I’m your wife, aren’t I? I don’t have to worry about you assaulting my virtue because you’re supposed to be fucking me.”

Sweden closes his eyes, bows his head. “Haven’t used that word for years.”

“Maybe not,” Finland says. “You’re still lord and master to my lands, and where Stockholm’s nobles go I follow, for your lords have become mine, and your language has been brought to my lakes and forests, and it is to pay your taxes and tithes that my fields are tilled –”

Sweden walks out of the room. Out of the house, into the snow, out to where the horses and the cows are kept.

He leans his forehead against the neck of one of the mares, inhales the warmth, the dusty air that smells of shit and hay and leather. She rumbles curiously, shifts away, shifts back. Sniffs him to see if he’s brought a snack for her.

If that’s what Finland really believes, how he really sees things between them, then Sweden will never win him. Will never lie unashamed in bed beside him. Will never hold him undone with pleasure.

“Good,” Sweden says aloud. He remains unconvinced, so he says it again, and again after that.

“I bet that horse is happy to know you like her,” Finland says from behind him. Sweden jerks, turning to face him.

Finland smiles lopsidedly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that.”

Sweden doesn’t say anything. He wants to say, _Didn’t I postpone the confirmation of my king once for your sake?_ but that would just make them both unhappy.

“I just,” Finland says. “If it’s going to be a union, then I want all the privileges that come with it. Not just a cadre of tax-men in your service and my strength in your army.” He reaches out; his hands close around Sweden’s arm. “I want my voice in your decisions and I want to share our bed. As – as spouses, not brothers-in-arms.”

Sweden breathes, tastes blood and the beat of his own heart. “Y’know what that means.”

“It means that sleeping next to the horses becomes a sign of coming rebellion instead of a way to keep warm?”

Sweden rests his hand over Finland’s, on his arm. “That too.”

Finland laughs. “It means that you’ll be buggering me, so if I’m going to commit a crime against the laws of God and man I want to enjoy it.” He drags Sweden away from the horse, out of the barn and back to the house. In the flicker-light of the fire in the – in _their_ bedroom, he folds his arms over Sweden’s shoulders and pulls him down, into the bed, into his embrace.


End file.
